Wednesday, March 18, 2009


This world became some what of a burden to him as a child. He hated everything about it, but he couldn't seem to just stop. So he did what any self respecting child would do. He grew up to be a self-loathing prick of a man.

Pushing around all of those was never much a problem for him. His own voice echoing through the thin walls of the office where he worked. He climbed through the echelons of this useless little packing office and became the region manager. Head Honcho, Big Cheese. He was the king of the packaging industry in his distric, and he let people know it.


Monday, the longest day of the week. He sat with his back away from the window, letting the green-housed light bathe over him. Blad head, red cheeks, heavy breathing. He was the epitome of intimedation, but it's what he needed. He needed to be ruthless, he needed to be terrible, it was his calling to be a tyrant. The tyrant of West Coast Packages, distric 419. He could hear them outside his opaque glass door, walking around, plotting against him. His teeth gritted and he bit back the urge to open the door and harass them again. Twice in one hour wouldn't be very productive.

So he sat, bathing in the sun light, waiting for the clock to finally arch over one last time. All he could do was wait. Why promote synergy when all his cronies only wanted to fuck around. Why micro-manage? He didn't really mind wasting a few minutes, he didn't really mind being harassed by the company head. It wasn't something that bothered him all that much, so long as he could be the messenger and ruin the lives of every one around him.

Of course he loved to be malignant, he suffered as a child.

This is when the phone rang. It was his wife. Crying again, he could barely make out a word she was saying, something about the kids from school. He violently reminded her that he was busy and didn't have time to pick the kids up at school. Then he brought to light the fact that she had become an old useless fuck, and that she should pick them up herself.


He didn't have to deal with this right now, because it was infact, the longest day of his life.

See, when you get beaten as a child. When your father drinks, and your mother takes vicodin to make sure that she doesn't remember your father drinks, you see the world in a whole new light. You see the world filled with malice, and see it only capable of creating more pain, and more hate for you to take part in.

Do you know how small you are?



He doesn't have to deal with this right now. More hustle bustle outside. He doesn't know why everyone's trying so hard to meet quota on a monday, especially this monday, it being the longest day of his life. He'd only slapped Sharon for not meeting quota last month because she'd been such a pompous bitch about work place regulations all week. Thing is, Sharon was on his bad side, and she deserved it.



The streets were the same way, hustle bustle. Cars honking, moving to get through as quickly as possible. You see, his view on automobiles was a little bit skewed. When he was sixteen, his father, reeking of alchohol, brought our protagonist out to a used car lot. His father said, pick a car, any car son. Of course, the boy was ecstatic, he'd never been offered any kindness in his entire life, this was his chance to redeem himself, to earn some freedom.

He chose as concienciously as he could, something not too expensive or flashy, but reliable. He motioned for his father when he found the right specimen, eyes beaming.

His father, as you may have guessed, stepped up to his side and promptly slapped his son across his face. He then clutched the boys cheeks between his boney fingers to bring his gaze level with the frightened youth. An even mixture of rum and saliva spraying from his mouth, he screamed terrible terrible things.

"You useless little fuck, you'll never afford this, you'll never afford any of these. This is your life lesson, this leading by example. I'm being a good father here because I'm reminding you of how shitty and useless you are. You'll never amount to enough to afford a car, a house a family, because you are a useless, insignificant, stupid fucking mistake."

You could say this caused a slight, disfunction in the boy. He never looked at cars the same way again.



The longest day of his life and it was finally almost over, finally almost drawing to a grinding end. It was then that the knock on the door happened. Go away.


Go Away.

He didn't want to see any one, he wanted to be alone. Alone as ever, just as he was in his own mediocre life now, just as he was in the mess of a life he once had. He wanted to be left alone to suffer out the worst day of his life.

The door opened regardless, and his wife trudged in, tears streaming down her face. She was fat by his standard, not nearly as beautiful as when they'd met, and she was crying. He reminded her of how ugly she was when she cried.


Your son is dead. I called you to tell you that, they found him at school, dead.


He fell off the top of the jungle gym and fell unconcious in the sand. No one did a thing, they all just watched as the seemingly dead boy lay on the ground. They called the ambulance, everyone was told not to move him. Thing is he was just unconcious, no spinal damage. Thing is, he died from asphixiation on account of breathing in the sand on the ground where his head lay.


Your son is dead.

It was at this point that he turned to the window to face the light head on. No tears, no sadness in his eyes at all. He stared straight into the sun and hoped to feel a slight pain in his corneas. Something to let him know he was still human. Nothing. Thing is, he didn't really care all that much. Thing is, he'd raped her as a teenager.

Thing is, the boy was a mistake.

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